Posts Tagged ‘flag’

A Tale of Two Citizens

May 30, 2016

The following letter, having been set aside some time ago– years, even,  before that damned old war between the states– was recently retrieved from a dusty old trunk that had been slumbering in some historic personage’s great great great grandmother’s attic. A few of the smudged words have been hyperthetically reconstructed by digital accumulations for the sake of clarification and in the interests of obfuscation forensically reconstrued; furthermore, the date, although specified herein below, is still unproven, indeterminable except within a two-centuries margin of error. Be that as it may, the letter reads thusly:

April  26, 1816ish

My Dear Kate:

It is my hope that in the best of times wisdom can prevail over foolishness; yet in these days, which I fear may actually approach being the worst of times, it is the other way around. I notice that the general willingness of human souls to profess a belief in God Almighty is on the decline, while widespread faithless cynicism runs rampant through our apoplectic citizenry.

Yeah, I say unto thee, in this season of darkness, when a black man, Walter Scott, is carelessly gunned down in the streets without  probable cause, many of the black community are fallen into despair. At the same time, the white citizens whose comfortable existence is not threatened by such illegal abuses are free to lollygag along their merry way with no care in the world, sauntering along on Calhoun boulevard just a whistling dixie as if there’s nothing really out of the ordinary happening around here in this day and time.

I mean, I noticed this, just sayin’, be that as it may. . .

Today as we strolled through Charleston we happened upon a sight quite impressive–four magnificent horses cast in stone, rendering a fountain sculpture that appears quite fluidic with artistic remonstrance and equine bravado unparalleled anywhere else on the streets of this fair city.

Horses4

Turns out we had stumbled upon the entrance to a most superlative hotel, which we promptly and without further ado entered, and found to be quite the bellisimo Belmondo accomodationo. Among several fascinating portraitures hung there in the sumptuous foyer upon a wall I snapped this one daguerrotype, which happens to be, for reasons I will heretofore explain a double image:

Pinckney

I refer to this j.ust p.lain g.ood image as CCPinckney numero uno,  and the other as CCPinckney numero duo, because both of these guys are called–although they sport quite different countenances–by the same name: Pinckney.

A little googling around soon brings to mind a few noteworthy  factoids about these two great South Carolinians, although each one lived about 200 years apart from the other. To whit:

~ Both were Senators in the South Carolina Legislature.

~ The elder, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, actually signed our US Constitution, along with all those other founding forefathers, on September 17, 1787–that Constitution which later secured and assured (in spite of the subsequent damned ole war between the States) the right of the younger. . .

~ Clementa Carlos Pinckney, to represent, and legislate on behalf of–not only the general citizenry of South Carolina– but also the descendants of both former slaves and  former slaveowners, to assure their rights and privileges as free citizens of the great state of South Carolina, and also, in the wider sense, the United States of America.

~ while one was a diplomat and a slaveowner back in the dawn of American independence, the other has served God’s people as a pastor in these modern times–worst of times and best of times– and, in the secular realm as a defender of the oppressed peoples of a somewhat dysfunctional democratic republic known otherwise as the land of the free and home of the brave.

~ while the elder, CCP numero uno, ran for president twice as the Federalist party nominee in 1804 and 1808, and lost both elections, the younger CCP numero duo didn’t run for Prez or anything except South Carolina House of Representatives and South Carolina state Senate, at which prospect he did succeed and went on to do a whoppin’ good job of it– representing his own soul brothas and sistahs as well as the broader  interests of the people of the great state of South Carolina.

~ CCPinckney numero uno had fought against the redcoats, to assure that an American flag (instead of the Brit one) could flap in the breeze over all our forthcoming institutions, while CCPinckney numero duo later strove and struggled to obtain  justice for oppressed people, kinda like the biblical Amos, to such an extent that he was lauded posthumously as a humbly bold, though effective, Christian leader, a skillfully compassionate legislator, and a highly respected human being whose untimely death–at the despicable hands of a racist asshole–evoked a resolution from the South Carolina legislature, the decree of which was the removal of that old confederate rag from the flagpole at the legislature and the state Capitol and God only knows how many other institutions in this here Palmetto State.

So I must conclude, my dear Kate, having communicated to you this tale of two citizens, that on this fair spring day there is much good to report concerning the gentle citizens of Charleston, with the exception of a few renegade rebels who insist on having their own way and dragging up old raggedy-ass grudges to be rudely displayed, instead of Old Glory, upon the local flag poles.

But I know in my heart that this too shall pass.

I hope this note finds you well and happy as a goose in heat. Be ye kind.

Yours truly, your Uncle

Sid

P.S. It’s looking like these upstart Democratic-Republicans will prevail in this year’s election and thus propel James Monroe into the Presidency. I hope they know what they’re doing.

Glass half-Full

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Not your father’s parade, booby

September 2, 2012

Americans do love a parade. We revel gloriously, don’t we, in their ambient festivity. We get excited, turning into regular yankee doodle dandies, when we hear the brass band Sousa strains wafting on a summer breeze from the other end of Main Street.

It’s Labor Day! Surely that’s what this parade was all about today in Charlotte.

Not exactly. Absent from this Labor Day parade were the marching bands with their brass flashing in the sunshine. No Sousa phrases of Stars and Stripes Forever were floating on this uptown Charlotte breeze. We heard no clarinets proclaiming harmonies to complement their sassy trumpet cousins; we felt no sultry saxes. Gone were the young girls spinning their batons and tossing them high into the air to celebrate Americanity, as sequins sparkle and  children harken.

No. That Main Street thing was so old school. It was like, Ozzie and Harriet, for crying out loud.  I’m here to tell ya that somewhere between Ozzie and Harriet and Ozzy Osborne we got all turned around. Everything now is whoop-fizz, wooby-shooby hip-flip city, not to mention protest. Well, I just did mention it: protest.

That’s why today’s parade in Charlotte was a horse of a different color, or flag of a different color. What used to be red, white, and blue flapping on the summer breeze is now a kind of shredded rag of tattered and torn ideological fabric, flapping on the sound-bite hot air. What we got now is what the talking media heads have termed fragmentation.

Down there in Tampa you had the red stripes. Now, here in Charlotte, just before the Democrats meet, all the blue stripes have come out in full force.

But this new color-coding of political stripes is backwards. You know that don’t you? I mean, back in the day, communists were “reds,” and American patriots were true “blue.”  How did this get turned around?

If you don’t believe me, check out that old ’70s movie, Reds, starring Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton as a couple of yankee Soviet-sympathizers supporting the Bolsheviks when the revolutionaries killed the czar and his family in Russia in 1917.  Now them was reds, the kind of reds that the John Birchers used to dis when they grumbled, back in the ’50s, better dead than red! 

But here we are now, in 2012, in Charlotte, across the street from Bank of America corporate headquarters, for crying out loud, in this so-called (in the new newspeak) redstate because of it bein’ in the bible belt, and in this red city because of all the republican bankers, and here comes this band of rag-tag bunch of occupiers from every blue state and blue neighborhood in this here nation.

But them’s reds if I ever saw one. I mean, the first sign I saw said: Capitalism is holding back the human race.!

I fear this is not your father’s parade, booby. I’m thoroughly confused. Furthermore, the Code Pink contingent passing by has totally intensified my redwhiteandblue colors schizoshmizz.

Actually, that Capitalism is sign was the second sign I saw. The first one said: Vote now Jail bank execs Jail oil execs.

And these are definitely signs of the times. They were preceded by no traditional  drum and bugle corps. Instead we had a lone drummer at the fore. (behind the myriad of police escorts, of course.) He looked like ZZTop. They made him stop beating the drum when the ragtag Occupy Wall Street South ensemble stopped in from of Bank of America headquarters to let the world know exactly why they had come here, by making speeeches and flashing their signs and strutting their stuff.

These days,  we fragmented Americans  are like birds of a different feather, strutting the stuff. These here are  the wispy-wing’ed fringes of the blue flock. I suppose if you went to a Tea Party gathering a while back, you’d have gotten a view of what they’re calling the red flock. Tea Partiers don’t strut, however; they tend to sit in lawn chairs that they themselves brought from their back porches at home.

These Occupiers, I don’t think they have back porches, but more likely, fire escapes.

The last time I saw a parade like this was in the streets of Florence, Italy, several years ago.

There were some similarities with that Italian procession and what we see today approaching the DNC arena. You could just feel, back in the old country, that those old ideological lines had been drawn long ago. The onlookers just kind of yawn, like oh here comes another socialist parade; it must be Friday. The paraders were very organized, not like this bunch I’m looking at now. And those Europeans are more obviously labor-centered, not like here where the unions are just kind of hovering around the perimeter, waiting for their opportunity to organize the occupiers when they run out of steam.

And these fledgeling protest movements in the USA, they’re like only a hundred and twenty years old or so, still young and whippersnappin’, not like those European ones that seem so mature and classifiable and with their own political parties and stuff.

And I need to mention before I go that the ratio of protesters to police to onlookers was, from my sidewalk perch, something like 1:1:1. Not very efficient, from a banking city’s spreadsheet standpoint.

The long, steady stream of fire trucks at the end made it seem a little like the old days-style parade, with hints of orderly garnish, and an official finish, as the coffee-slurpers might say here at Starbucks where I’m now knocking this little ditty out.

And guess what, Labor Day is tomorrow, not today. What was I thinking?

 

Glass half-Full